


I'm not worth it

by Tastethatcake



Category: BoJack Horseman
Genre: Depression, Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Relationships, feel good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-24 21:00:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4935223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tastethatcake/pseuds/Tastethatcake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Surprise surprise, Bojack is depressed and needs help getting out of bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm not worth it

**Author's Note:**

> Pls comment if you like or don't like it, this is my first BoJack fic so I'm open to suggestions and criticism. Thanks for reading

It had been one of those days where each hour seemed to pass simultaneously in seconds and in years. One minute the sun was rising over LA’s skyline, and then the next it was dipping below the horizon again. Despite this, BoJack still felt like he had been lying in bed for years, not days, and that moss would grow out of the floor and pull him back into the earth if he lay there for just a bit longer. That wouldn’t be such a terrible fate. 

His body had felt heavy this morning. Not necessarily in a “ate too many apple fritters and now I can’t move” kind of way, but more in a “every force on this planet is working to drag me back into bed” kind of way. He had looked out the window between the blinds for several minutes, staring into the newly arisen sun half hoping he’d go blind, and then lay back down and pulled the sheets over himself. No run today, he decided, before chastising himself for being a fat fuck who can’t even jog up a hill, let alone accomplish anything meaningful in the few short years remaining. Since then he had only gotten up to pee, which had also been quite the mental struggle. 

Around what BoJack estimated to be be 1pm (or 3pm… or 11am…) he heard a knock on his bedroom door. He rolled over to face away from the door, crushing several beer cans under his body in the process, and waited. Todd would come in regardless of whether BoJack responded or not.

“Um… heyyy, buddy.” Todd said from the door. BoJack saw in the reflection in the window that Todd had a hand over his nose and was wafting air away from his face. BoJack couldn’t tell himself, but he guessed that the room smelled pretty strongly of alcohol and body odor to anyone who hadn’t been lying in the room for several days. 

BoJack didn’t respond. His mouth felt like it was glued shut. 

“Soooo, since you don’t seem to be doing much, I was wondering if I could have some friends over. You know, for a little get together… after all, you said we were best friends and all, so I should get invite privileges, right?”

The words that immediately came to BoJack’s mind were, “no, why would you even think I would say yes to that? Go be an idiot somewhere else, Todd.” But he didn’t say that. Todd was right, after all. It wasn’t like BoJack was using the rest of the house at the moment. Besides, what would BoJack be remembered as after he died? The asshole that never lets his semi-permanent house guest do anything fun with his multi-million dollar home? Maybe by letting Todd have some fun for once, he would be redeeming himself in a minuscule way. Also, someone was bound to bring more booze.

“Sure,” BoJack croaked, his voice creaky with disuse. “Just don’t let anyone into this room.”

“What, really? Alright! Thanks, BoJack.” Todd said. “Oh, also, Princess Carolyn called and told me to tell you to ‘pick up your cell, asshole. You can’t wallow forever.’”

I can, and I will. “Okay.” BoJack responded, and Todd closed the door behind him.

Time continued to slip past like water between parted fingers, and BoJack drank seven more cans of beer and made a mental list of every single reason why he hated himself, which seemed to go on forever. Fat, lazy, talentless, mean, unlovable, and broken were just a few of the adjectives that made up BoJack. All unplesent, but all unfortunately real, just like BoJack himself.

By the time night came again, the thumping bass of bad dance music and the smell of alcohol that (sadly) wasn’t BoJack’s pervaded his pity cave, and he regretted saying yes to Todd’s “get together.” At one point, two people with their hands in each other’s hair and probably huge massive boners or whatever stumbled into the room and BoJack had to put the effort in to throw empty beer cans at them while shouting “OCCUPIED! GET OUT!” 

He was prepared to do that again when the door opened a second time, but BoJack put the beer can down and half sat up when he realized that his visitor was not two more horny youths, but Mr. Peanutbutter.

“BoJaaaaack, is this a crossover episode?” He asked as he entered the room, cotton candy in hand.

“Can’t you knock?” BoJack asked irritably.

Mr. Peanutbutter ignored BoJack’s words, and proceeded to close the door behind him. “I just wanted to check up on my best buddy. Cotton candy?”

“I don’t want that.”

Mr Peanutbutter tilted his head and shook the cotton candy stick slightly. 

“Fine, but it’s your fault if I get diabetes and die,” BoJack said grudgingly, snatching the stick from Mr Peanutbutter’s hand.

“Remember that time you found out Diane and I were dating and then threw up cotton candy off your balcony? Good times.”

“Yeah, I remember that, you don’t have to remind me,” BoJack said, cotton candy already half gone.

Mr Peanutbutter had been wandering around the room looking for a light swtich, but now settled for opening the blinds and letting the light from LA’s nightlife illuminate the room.

“You reeeally need to clean up this place, BoJack. Phew. I know horse noses aren’t as good as dog noses, but man…”

“Why are you here, Mr Peanutbutter? I didn’t invite you, Todd did.”

“’Cause I’m worried about you, buddy! Nobody’s heard from you for days, it’s so unlike you.”

BoJack rolled his eyes. Actually, this was totally like him. “Nevermind, I’m not interested in talking to you. The door’s over there, which I’m telling you because I have very little faith in your navigation skills.”

Mr Peanutbutter laughed loudly. “You’re always such a riot! But jokes aside, how are you doing?”

BoJack was about to remind Mr Peanutbutter that he wasn’t, in fact, joking at all, but then decided not to for the exact same reason he let Todd throw a party. By being nice now, maybe he would avoid being shit on at the funeral, or at least get shit on a little less. “Not good, Mr Peanutbutter.”

“Why’s that, buddy?” He sat down on the edge of the bed, and BoJack became aware that he didn’t have enough alcohol in his body for this conversation. He put down the now cleaned off cotton candy stick and picked up a half full bottle of bourbon.

“Because I’m a terrible person, everything I do is bad, and my existence has very little value,” BoJack said, taking a swig of bourbon.

“Aw, that’s not very nice to say about youself, BoJack! I’ll tell you a secret… my show, Mr Peanutbutter’s House, was highly influenced by Horsin’ Around. So it can’t all be bad!”

“Oh my god,” BoJack said, running a hand down his face. “Literally everyone knows your show cop-” he started, before remembering that it wasn’t really worth the effort and took another drink from his bottle.

“Have you ever tried positive thinking?” Mr Peanutbutter asked this like BoJack had never heard of such a thing before. 

As if he hadn’t already tried everything. From yoga to heroin, from therapy to stress eating, nothing had ever worked. “Broken is broken.”

“You’re not broken. It isn’t your fault your mom was a horrible person, or that your childhood role model killed himself, or that Hollywoo gave you unattainable expectations for yourself in your early twenties.”

BoJack narrowed his eyes at Mr Peanutbutter. “How did you know that?”

“What, you think I wouldn’t read the book my wife wrote?”

BoJack shrugged. He just didn’t picture Mr Peanutbutter reading, or having any form of intelligent thought. “I don’t know if you haven’t noticed with all the ‘positive thinking’ you’re doing, but I’m actually a bad person.”

“So maybe sometimes you’re… um…”

“An asshole?”

“Yeah! Just because of that, doesn’t mean you can’t be better. I mean, you want to be better, right? So why don’t you just… try?”

BoJack rolled his eyes again and dropped the now empty bottle to the ground. He now felt appropriately drunk for the situation. “It’s not that simple. You’re a good person. You like yourself. You can’t understand.”

“You think Diane doesn’t have times where she lies down and doesn’t get up? She’s just like you, BoJack. You both want to feel better about yourselves.”

“Maybe you don’t understand your wife that well either.” Now BoJack was really getting tired of the conversation. He just wanted to sleep. For an hour, for a day, for the rest of his life. “Besides, its not like I haven’t tried to be a better person before. Every time I try, I somehow end up ruining everything for myself and others. I’m like a volcano- for all the effort I put in to keep it inside me, eventually my badness will spill out and hurt everyone around me. So why bother keeping it in?”

“Because you’re talented! You’re a great actor!”

“Wh- Really?”

“Yeah, I saw you in Secretariat! A truly breathtaking performance.”

“Oh… yeah,” BoJack said, deciding not to remind Mr Peanutbutter that his entire performance in Secretariat was computer generated.

“And I never told you this, but… I was always jealous of how smart you are. You were always saying something witty that I never really understood. It made me want to talk to you more.”

“Huh.” BoJack always wondered why Mr Peanutbutter seemed so keen to be friends with him. He had just assumed that he didn’t take rejection well. 

“You’re worth it to try to fix, BoJack. You need to… get back up on that horse.”

“Heh…” BoJack said. Just now, the bourbon was starting to hit him hard. Should’ve cut it with water, it’s gonna hurt tomorrow. BoJack reached over the bed and picked up an unopened and warm can of beer and held it out to Mr Peanutbutter. 

“Oh, no, I don’t drink.”

“C’mon. Just this once.”

Mr Peanutbutter looked at the can, the inebriated BoJack, and then back at the can. He then lifted the tab and took a long sip.

“That’s it… to getting back on the horse.” BoJack said, clinking his bottle with Mr Peanutbutter’s can. 

“To getting on the horse.”

 

The next morning, BoJack didn’t even remember falling asleep. The first thing he saw was Mr Peanutbutter curled up and the food of the bed, just barely tucked under the sheets. He quickly looked at himself under the covers and saw himself fully clothed. Thank god, we didn’t have sex. But he did have vague memories surfacing of running his hands through Mr Peanutbutter’s fur. What the hell. Fucking plot twist.

And that’s when a miracle occured: BoJack decided to get out of bed and take a shower. It was time to clean up and call Princess Carolyn. 

He stopped next to Mr Peanutbutter before going to the bathroom. After checking to make sure the yellow lab was still asleep, he quickly and embarrassedly patted his head. “Good dog,” he said awkwardly. 

It was time to, once again, get his life together.


End file.
